Evening
by Lynn Saunders
Summary: Endless evening.


Title: Evening Author: Lynn Saunders Rating: R Classification: MSR Summary: Endless evening.  
Feedback: Adored, re-read, printed out, and immortalized in a quality binder at Distribution: Archive freely, but please drop me a line to let me know.  
Date Completed: 06.18.2007 Disclaimer: Oops, not mine. Sorry.

Special thanks to Carol for quick and speedy beta. Sallie, I hope you feel better soon!  
This is my first attempt since 2004, and it's a short one. I'm easing back into things. I hope you enjoy it.  
It is a mystery to me why I find it impossible to write WinterFic at any time other than summer.

- - -

"It was evening all afternoon. It was snowing and it was going to snow. The blackbird sat in the cedar limbs." Wallace Stevens, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

- - -

Ribbons of smoke curl through peppermint air. Mulder shivers, the creak of winter seeping into his bones at dusk in December, with Scully five steps ahead in the flurrying snow.

The trees stand in perfect rows, branches bowed with the afternoon's snow. This is new, this glimpse of spontaneity in the midst of what he considers to be Scully's very structured life. He cannot remember her ever shopping for a Christmas tree before.

"Which one, Scully?"

She pauses, looking back at him as if he's crazy.  
"I'm not taking one with me. I just wanted to look."

At the entrance to the farm, fires blaze in several large barrels, keeping the workers warm. Scully approaches, stretching her fingers out before the flames. She has a flush about her that he can't resist, and he takes her by the hand, tugging her away from the fire. This thing between them is still new and wild, and he can't control it. He's not sure he wants to.

Earlier, she looked him in the eye and used the word "farinaceous" in a sentence, curling her perfect lips around the last syllable. He was struck anew by the iridescence of her spirit, the parts of her that bind him unawares,  
and the parts of him he recognizes in her. Scully in an elemental sense, beyond her creamy skin and ocean eyes, down to the spark of her being, the subtle press of her psyche against his, truly is the most beautiful thing.

There are candy canes for the ride home. He drives with one hand, maneuvering easily through the moonless night as Scully licks her lips in his peripheral vision.

Her apartment is dark and warm, and there is no question that he'll stay. It's an endless evening, and he's melting with his hands on her body and her thoughts tangling in his mind. Euphoric, this rise and fall. He doesn't want it to end, an addict already.

He's fingerprinting her spine, licking his thumb and pressing it to the base of her neck. In the turmoil of grief, a hazy darkness, his ramshackle life, she is there. Equinoctial, she separates the dark from the light.

She brings him to his knees in the best possible way. This way, with his stubbled jaw scraping her temple,  
hands steadying her hips, cock deep inside her. This way. The best way.

They are rough with each other, frenzied, biting, her nails digging into his thighs as Mulder growls into her ear, marking her neck.

Three months and he still can't believe it. He dreams of these moments when he's alone and restless against scratchy motel sheets, when he's squinting behind dark sunglasses, and in a hundred little moments every day. In the light, there's a logical, responsible reason to pretend they've never given in. He knows, but none of it matters when she's moving this way, arching against him, sweat carving the small of her back, and all he can think is 'mine.'

All too soon the alarm sounds and they're running late again. Mulder is taking his time, shaving carefully, swishing his razor under the running tap. Scully regards him closely, pausing in the bathroom doorway. She is already buttoned into her suit jacket, completely put together. Mulder is shirtless.

She spent years waking alone, flushed from dreams of him. Now here's the real thing, and she is utterly satisfied with herself. Sleeping with Mulder has proven to be every bit as fulfilling as she imagined. He does have a nice ass.

He smiles at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. "Coffee on the way?"

She looks at her watch briefly and fidgets, adjusting a button on her jacket sleeve. "If we leave in five minutes."

"Five minutes." He dries his face and reaches for his shirt and tie, watching her as he buttons and straightens, flips his collar. He's looping his tie when she takes the ends away from him, easing the silk into a knot.

Her fingers glide across his lips, and he remembers his hand moving between her legs the night before, her neck warm beneath his mouth, and the realization that being able to make love with the person who understands you better than anyone else in the world is a rare thing, the best thing, and something to celebrate.

- - 


End file.
